


Watermelon and Hot Pockets

by chronicAngel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cravings, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Married Couple, POV Second Person, Pregnancy, Slice of Life, Watermelons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:49:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27416803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chronicAngel/pseuds/chronicAngel
Summary: Dave stares at you for a second, apparently dumbfounded. “Fucking. Watermelon and Hot Pockets. Sure! Whatever. C’mon, I’m gonna get my keys.”
Relationships: Jade Harley/Dave Strider
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Watermelon and Hot Pockets

**Author's Note:**

> What's this? A published fic??

“She’s moving again,” Dave announces dutifully, as though you were somehow unaware. You just snicker back down at him, earning a pout back up at you from where his head rests on your swollen belly. Your daughter has been particularly active as long as you’ve been able to feel her movements, which is really sort of an uncomfortable sensation on your part and not the functional miracle that it still is to Dave, but he’s been a lot more excited to sit around just feeling the baby all day since your ultrasound last week where the both of you got to watch her moving on a screen for a full minute (much to the doctor’s chagrin, who was trying to get her to stay still for a clear picture to identify her sex; you’d both seen it and immediately looked at one another and, at the same time, announced, “Your kid.”).

“She’s always moving. I’m more surprised when she stops moving.” You huff, and Dave sticks his tongue out at you before dutifully nuzzling his nose against your stomach again.

“Don’t worry sweetie, I won’t let your momma be that mean to you when you’re out in the world,” he murmurs sweetly, and then you feel your daughter shift before kicking as hard as her little developing body is capable of right into her father’s nose and you snort. Dave pulls away, more startled than hurt, and brings a hand up to his nose. “That actually hurt!” You raise your brows at him, and he deflates somewhat. “...It hurt a little,” he adds, and you laugh harder. This seems to have been his intended effect, because he stops his pouting and moves his hand from his nose to press it against your abdomen again and leans in to kiss you softly.

You slide a hand up to his cheek, the other still resting next to his over your daughter’s favorite spot to kick lately, dangerously close to your ribs. Her feet have been getting closer and closer to your ribcage as she turns around to be head-down in preparation for birth. You hadn’t originally been planning to find out the sex of your baby, because it hardly mattered to the two of you, but after an argument over what color to paint the nursery (yellow or green, which Dave had argued were both rather feminine until you had said that yellow was  _ son _ ny and he refused to talk to you until you scheduled the appointment) you caved at eight months when the finish line was within your sights.

It was relieving to know, though. You’d been struggling to think of a boy’s name (“It should be a J name. You and John and your parents and your grandpa and your uncle and fucking everybody in your family is a J name.” “That’s exactly why I  _ don’t _ wanna give our kid a J name. Plus, our girl’s name isn’t a J name!” “That’s because all of the girl J names that don’t fucking suck are already in your family.”) and knowing that you didn’t need to, that if a boy’s name needed to be picked that could go onto your child’s shoulders in a few years and you wouldn’t have to be involved in the process, has alleviated a lot of (admittedly silly) stress.

“I need watermelon,” you announce as spontaneously as you had decided it, and Dave doesn’t even bother to try arguing with you, just laughs a little and presses a kiss against your forehead and pushes to get up from the nursery floor where the two of you have been cuddling after finally removing all of the painter’s tape from the baseboards.

He holds out a hand to help you stand up and you still struggle an embarrassing amount. Once you’re on your feet, you look around proudly at your interior decorating skills. (“You decorate like straight people,” Rose had said in a tone that was neither complimentary nor insulting when you showed her the Pinterest board the two of you had collaborated on once you’d finally settled on the color of the room and described to her what you were envisioning. You had responded with the fact that you  _ are _ straight, while Dave had acted appalled by the idea.) You’ve procrastinated getting the nursery done for months now, but if nothing else, the walls are painted the exact shade of pastel green you had been envisioning when you pushed it with Dave (once the walls were all painted, he begrudgingly admitted that it  _ was _ a really good color) and you have a little bookshelf built and the crib is assembled in the same corner that your desk used to be in when this was still your in-home office. (Shared in-home office, but Dave’s desk is still in the room until the two of you can get your hands on a rocking chair which will take his opposite corner so he doesn’t have to find someplace to move the thing.)

In the crib is a blanket Rose had started knitting for you when you had announced your pregnancy at three months (“You’re  _ three months _ pregnant? That’s a whole trimester!” John had responded, horrified, revealing that he knew much more about pregnancy than you would have guessed and was much more invested in your pregnancy than you were banking on), a little stuffed monkey, a slightly larger stuffed parrot, and the baby doll Dave had bought as a joke when you started your third trimester.

You hate that thing. It’s one of those shitty highschool childhood development dolls and you think he thought it would be much less tiring than it actually ended up being. You turned it off after three weeks and now it just lays in the crib looking disapproving at your lack of commitment at all hours, unless one of you feels particularly guilty about your neglect and decides to carry it around the house for a little while (which is doing very weird things for your pregnancy brain, and you don’t know what you’re going to do when this thing can’t sleep in the crib anymore because your actual infant has made its way out of your body).

Fortunately, watermelon has been a frequent craving in the last trimester of your pregnancy (especially “watermelon and” where the thing following the and is anything ranging from strawberries to greek yogurt to hot sauce to actual straight up vinegar), so you already have one on hand. Dave just has to cut it for you, and you make the choice to hop up onto the counter next to the cutting board with the knowledge that this means you’re going to be stuck here for the next hour at least.

“How much watermelon are we talkin’ here tonight, babe? Am I just gonna peel this sucker like an orange and give it to you to consume in its entirety like a South American snake of some sort or like, those pigs in The Wizard of Oz? Y’know they were straight up just going to eat Dorothy, but the real fucked up part is that that’s totally realistic in real life. Pig farmers are terrified of their pigs and they totally should be. If you fall into the pigpen your ass WILL get eaten, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred--”

“Dave.” He’s gotten so distracted with his rambling that he’s stopped cutting your watermelon, which is unacceptable. He snaps his mouth shut into an amused little smile and goes back to the watermelon, which he is cutting into slices, obviously. Your appetite has gotten larger since you got pregnant, but it’s not quite  _ that _ huge. Yet.

He gets a third of the way through cutting the watermelon and then looks at you over his shades with raised eyebrows. “This good or do you need more?” You hum for an overly long time instead of answering with words, your embarrassed way of admitting that you would like more than that, but hey, in your defense, watermelon is mostly water and barely actual food! He just laughs a little and starts cutting some more watermelon, and adds, “And am I gonna add something wack to this watermelon or are you gonna appreciate the sanctity of the fourth best fruit this time?”

“Fourth best?” You question with raised brows. If someone had asked you before you were pregnant, watermelon would have held a tight third place after lemons and bananas, which you couldn’t explain considering none of those fruits are even remotely similar. But you were one of those weirdos who could eat an entire lemon just by itself before you were pregnant, and now most citrus makes you violently ill, which was been one of the most deeply upsetting developments of your adult life. Bananas are just as good as they used to be, but watermelons have just gotten exponentially better and have thus stolen first place anyway.

“Obviously apples are the best fruit,” he explains, which, yes, you could have called that one. He’s maintained a love of apple juice since before the two of you met, or so you’re told, and he still drinks more of that than water despite your best efforts. “Pears are just weirdo bargain bin apples, so they’re the second best. I know what you might be thinking, ‘Dave, that’s ridiculous, them being bargain bin apples is exactly why they suck,’ but you’re also wrong, so moving on.” You hate that you were, in fact, thinking that. “And white grape juice is arguably as good as apple juice, so even though the fruit is nowhere near as good, I’m giving third place to white grapes.”

He scoots to drop the knife into the sink once he’s chopped half of the watermelon for you, and he starts dropping the slices onto a plate to serve you.

You grab a watermelon slice directly off of the chopping board while making eye contact with him, and sugary pink watermelon juice immediately drops from the fruit onto your shirt, only to drip immensely more when you actually take a bite of the fruit. Juice drips down your chin and you know it will dry to be unpleasantly sticky later, but for now you just want to eat your shitty liquid fruit in peace. “Y’know I’m glad the princess is demanding the healthy stuff, fruits and veggies, that hippie shit. She could be like, ‘Mother, father, I crave Hot Pocket,’ and I’d be like, ‘Shit, you heard her honey.’” You roll your eyes and pick up a second piece of watermelon, stuffing it into his mouth to shut him up. Juice drips onto his shirt, too, a band shirt for one of the many artists he listens to that you don’t recognize, and he scoffs once he’s properly bitten and then slurped up the watermelon.

“She doesn’t crave anything, she doesn’t have a fully developed central nervous system and if she tried to eat watermelon then she would  _ die.  _ Also true if she tried to eat Hot Pockets. Which, fuck you, sound really good now.”

Dave stares at you for a second, apparently dumbfounded. “Fucking. Watermelon and Hot Pockets. Sure! Whatever. C’mon, I’m gonna get my keys.”

You weren’t even trying to convince him to go to the store, but you still beam at him and spend a full minute slowly shimmying off the edge of the kitchen counter. You pause him at the doorway and give him a wet, sticky kiss. “I love you. You’re the best husband."


End file.
